The Hardest Part is Knowing What to Call It
by ResidentGoth
Summary: The Phantom encounters a disenchanted young woman named Amelia Hyatt. Strangely, he finds himself intrigued, even though she is a far cry from anything like Christine Daae. Eventual Erik/OC. Rated T just because. ON INFINITE HIATUS. ORIGINAL DOCUMENT IS LOST.
1. In Which Amelia and The Phantom Meet

Chapter One 

It took a while, but after a week of not knowing what to do with herself, Amelia Hyatt finally came to a decision: she would leave. Not for very long, mind you. Just a night, perhaps, just long enough to clear her head and be able to face the following day with a sane mind. She rolled off the bed and redressed in dark colors, specifically in a frock her mother hated on her—it was immodestly calf-length and grey plaid, a dress Amelia had snuck with her to Paris when her family moved there from their ancestral home on the moors. She decided on minimal petticoats; that way if she had to run she didn't have the added bulk to weigh her down. She braided her dark red hair into a single plait off to the side, and pulled on her boots and arm warmers.

Dressed for the occasion now, she cast her eyes about the room until her gaze landed on a wad of tissue-weight pink fabric. Smirking with the irony, she rummaged in earnest beneath the pile of cloth till she pulled out a tattered and well-used copy of Poe's _The Raven and Other Poems. _She almost laughed. Her mother would choke if she knew her daughter of one-and –twenty were reading such "heathen smut", as she would call it. Having secured her illicit prize, she tossed the book, a candle and a matchbook in an old rucksack she'd sewn one day out of boredom. Without so much as a backward glance, she opened the window and slipped into the night.

It had been six months since the great fire of the Opera Populaire. Amelia stood in front of the ruined façade and wondered what it had looked like in its glory days. She had heard rumors of the affair of the Phantom of the Opera, but decided that there were no such things as ghosts and left it at that. Anything else than that was just slatternly gossip. She hitched up her sack on her shoulder and strode into the shell of a theater, not knowing what she might find, nor really caring.

The silence inside was pregnant. Her footfalls were muffled by the ash and dust coating the floor like a grey film. She wandered around for a while, and presently made her way up to the boxes. She peeked into each one of them, curious as to what she might find. She had reached the fifth box when she thought she heard a rustling behind her. She silently set her bag down and poked around the box, but found nothing. Scowling, she set out to explore the rest of the theater.

The first thing that intrigued her was the remnants of the chandelier resting in the center of the room, lying like a great crystalline beast at rest for the winter. She stepped closer to it, apprehensively, as if it might truly grow fangs and snap at her. She lightly ran a hand down a string of the clear stones, leaving little trails where her fingers brushed away the soot. She wondered what it would have been like, the terror, the unadulterated fear, to have been here in the theater when this massive thing came crashing down.

Through the silence, she heard music. It sounded like an organ, but it came from too far away for her to be able to clearly tell. She followed the sound anyways, across the stage, into the rabbit's warren of halls and back rooms. The sound was loudest when she was standing in front of a particular dressing room door. The sign demarcated it: "Christine Daae". She pushed on the door experimentally and found it open. She entered a musty smelling room, filled with furniture and dead rotting flowers. The music was louder now. She was compelled to walk on, through the mirror on the back wall, down into the eternal night of the Opera Populaire's cellars and lower levels. She followed the sound like a blind man would a familiar voice, running her hand across the wall for reference, also like a blind man would. The music swelled, crescendoing massively and echoing off the damp stone. Amelia felt her pace quicken almost against her will. Her heart beat against her ribs, pounding in time to that unearthly, mesmerizing music.

The music was so close now… she could almost feel the vibrations of the organ within her.

Without warning, the stone floor dropped out from under her, replaced by cold, rushing water. For a moment she flailed, unable to take a breath or keep her head above the surface. The current was moving quicker than she had given it credit for. If she could keep afloat, she would be okay. She closed her eyes, lay back, and let the water carry her. The organ drifted in overhead, calling to her still.

In time the current slowed, and she found the source of the beautiful sound.

The word that immediately sprang to her mind was "lair." And before the keys, giving life to the notes and harmonies, was the Phantom of the Opera himself, slowly drawing forth from the keys and pipes a slowing, quiet, softer melody than before, moving towards silence.

The music stopped. He turned, and when he saw her, he stared at her, still clinging to the rock like a helpless mer-creature.

Amelia hefted herself up onto the ledge, soaked to the bone and out of breath.

"Hello…" She began, stopping when she saw the Punjab lasso held tightly in his hand.

Erik felt alive. Not since Christine had he been this inspired. The music poured forth from the depths of his soul, filling the cavernous gloom and reverberating off the walls. The volume increased, crescendoing louder and louder, until he felt it calm within him and quietly taper off into its ending. He stopped finally, after what seemed hours of playing, and breathed heavily. He turned on the bench, making for the swan bed, and once there, sleep.

And then he saw her. She was in the water, hanging on the rock like a drowned animal. The look on her face was simply awestruck. They stared at each other for a long moment, until she found purchase on the ledge and pulled herself up out of the water.

He reached for the lasso, tightening the knot with one hand. She had barely begun to speak before she noticed the vile weapon as well.

Her face blanched for a moment, but soon she composed herself.

"I apologize if I interrupted you." She said formally. The look of awe on her face had been replaced with calculating condescension. As much of an intruder as she was, this girl was no Christine. Erik doubted she was _that_ weak of will.

"Interrupt you did." Erik replied, running his fingers absently over the coiled rope of the lasso's knot.

She nodded towards the organ. "Carry on, if you like. I'll not interrupt."

Erik glared daggers at her. "Who are you?"

She stood firm and looked him in the eye, hands on her hips. "My name is Amelia Hyatt. I presume you to be the Phantom of the Opera?"

Erik hid his surprise. How dare she speak to him in such an abrupt manner? "Why yes. As a matter of fact I am." His voice changed from dripping sarcasm, to laden with venom. "Why are you lurking about my theater? Come to see if the Opera Ghost is real, eh?"

He advanced forward a step. She scowled mightily and again held her ground. "As a matter of fact," she began sardonically, "I do not believe in ghosts at all, Monsieur Phantom." She spit the last two words out with as much venom as he'd given her.

Erik was beyond surprised now, and quickly becoming astounded. This girl, woman, whoever she was, appeared to have no intention of being cowed by the mere fact that she was confronted with the infamous Opera Ghost, especially when he was in a foul humor. No one had ever stood up to him like that. Ever.

"You're avoiding my first question." He continued coldly. "Why are you lurking about in my theater?"

Amelia Hyatt gave him a withering look. "I do not recall lurking, my good sir. I came to the Opera Populaire after a grueling night of spending time against my will with my vapid, backwards mother and her ilk, seeking only to read my book and clear my head. I explored for a little while, and happened to hear something rustling behind me while I was in Box Five." Her scowl deepened. "I then noticed the chandelier, and proceeded to have a look at it. While I was there, I heard your music," –here she nodded again towards the organ—"and was curious as to its source. Thus, I followed it until I fell into the canal because it was dark and I couldn't see it in front of me. Then I floated down, until I reached the rock ledge there, and here I am explaining to _you_ why I was 'lurking about' in _your theater_."

She backed off and folded her arms, awaiting his reply. They glared at each other for a moment, until she broke the silence.

"You can go back to playing, if you like. I'll not interrupt."

He matched her glare tit for tat. "Why should I?"

She shrugged, blasé now. "I'm not telling you you must. It's your prerogative."

Erik felt his anger cool slightly. Still, he would not break eye contact with her.

She retreated a step, back the way she came. "Or, I can leave." Again, another step back, and then she turned to walk away.

The weight of the risk crashed upon him like a ton of brick. She could not be allowed to leave, not until he was certain she would not betray the secret of his existence. He lunged and snatched her by the arm, almost dragging her towards the mirrors.

"No!" He thundered. "You will not be allowed to leave, not yet."

She struggled against his iron grip, grunting with the effort. Try as she might, she could not pry herself free.

"What the bloody hell do you think you're doing?" She shrilled.

He stopped her roughly before the tallest of the mirrors and stood behind her, arms folded across his chest.

"What do you see?" He barked. "What?"

She shot another black look at him before crossing her own arms and answering, "I see a man in a mask and a woman in sodden clothes, neither of whom are in a pleasant state of being right now."

Erik stared over her and into the mirror for a long moment. A man in a mask, she'd said. Not a monster. A man.

"I see." Was all that he could say.

She turned her head towards him and met his eyes. "You see. And what, pray tell, is it that you see?"

"It doesn't matter." He mumbled, looking away from the mirror. He looked up then , back at her. She was staring into space and fiddling with her braid.

"I'll take you back, to the theater proper, but only on one condition."

Amelia snapped out of her reverie and cast a sidelong glance at him. "Which is…?"

"You must return here, to the Opera Populaire, each night, until I tell you otherwise."

Her gaze was far off, out across the water. "And if I don't? Agree to the conditions, that is."

"You will stay here anyways, for I will have no desire to help you if you refuse. You will not be able to escape, for I will hear you and will stop you; as well as you will not be able to swim against the current that far." He moved to untie the black boat; she hadn't noticed that before.

She stood for a moment, watching him apprehensively, thinking, chewing on the end of her little finger. Finally, she sighed and replied: "Very well. I agree." She cast another uneasy glance at the boat, then at him.

Erik stepped into the boat and held out a hand to help her. "Good. Now take my hand and step down. Be careful, it's a little slippery." She cautiously obliged, stumbling a little. He caught her by the waist and deftly pulled her in before she fell in again. For a long moment neither of them moved. His arm was still around her; their eyes were locked together. That single moment seemed to last an eternity. It occurred to Erik that her blue eyes had flecks of violet and grey in them. He flushed mightily at the thought and released her.

"Sit," he instructed quietly. "It will help balance the weight out."

She nodded, and tucked her legs demurely beneath her skirts.

The trip was silent, save for the drip and the swish of the water. He stopped the boat at the place where she fell, and guided her by the hand back to Christine Daae's dressing room. He stood behind the mirror and watched as she walked away. Suddenly a thought struck him. He chased after he, until he had her within earshot.

"Amelia!" Her name in his voice rang out and echoed through the silent halls. She stopped and turned back to reply.

"Yes?"

"My name is Erik."

He thought he saw the ghost of a smile touch her lips and her hand wave as she was claimed by the darkness. For the first time in what seemed ages, the Phantom smiled as well.

She would be back. He could feel it. In no way was she at all similar to Christine, but he knew she would come back.

When he returned to the cavern, words were forming in his head as he sat at his desk and reached for his pen and a piece of notepaper.


	2. In Which There Is A Party, and Dresses

Chapter Two

Amelia awoke to a knock on her door.

"Meeley-bug… you need to get up!" Mother. Of course. Today was going to be awful. As much as it seemed idiotic to do so, she was already impatient for the sun to go down she could get out of this blasted townhouse.

Amelia pulled the coverlet over her head. "Mooottthhhheeerrrrrrr…." She groaned, curling up under the blankets as if to shield herself from the onslaught about to ensue.

"No, Amelia Maria, you need to get up." From beneath her cocoon of blankets Amelia could see her mother, all business now, hands on her hips and frowning. "You have the final fitting today, so you can have your… gown… to wear at the party tonight."

At first Amelia died a little inside, but when she thought of the actual dress cheered a little.

"Alright. I'm coming. Can I have some privacy, please?"

Her mother huffed and reluctantly left the room. Once she was sure the door was shut, she poked her head out from the covers and stumbled over to the window. She had been so sure it was a dream…

But there it was, unassuming despite the grinning death's head cast in red sealing wax. She remembered… something, she was sure of that much. Erik, looming over her, smiling, incredibly handsome… she shook this last thought out of her mind and cracked the seal on the envelope. The handwriting contained therein was neat, spidery, and elegant, perfectly aligned in the center of the paper.

I will be waiting for you at Christine Daae's dressing room mirror, at precisely eleven o'clock tonight. Do not be late.

MP

Amelia smiled in spite of herself. MP. Monsieur Phantom, as she had so rudely called him. She wondered if he had a sense of humor or if he was just being satirical. She looked out the window at the Parisian streets below and could see the ruined silhouette of the Opera Populaire. She remembered now, what she thought she didn't: he was really in her bedroom, watching her sleep for a moment with an impassive look on his face. In her delirium she had reached out for his hand—encased in a soft leather glove—and held it loosely in hers. She felt him brush a lock of hair behind her ear before vanishing into the night, leaving the note for her on the bedside table.

She frowned, wondering what had possessed him to steal away like that. Surely he could have just given her the time last night… she chuckled quietly. Last night seemed like a dream as well. But again, there was the incontrovertible evidence: her damp clothes, her boots lightly dusted with gray ash, the note.

"Amelia! Get dressed and come down here!" her mother called. "I have an announcement!"

"Coming, Mother." Amelia hid the note beneath her mattress and did as her mother instructed.

The day wore on faster than Amelia had previously thought it would. The dressmaker only needed to make a few minor adjustments, little things like loose edges on the inside of a hem, making sure the petticoats were sewn in the right way, again complementing the Mmelles. Hyatt on their color choice for the dress, a shade that the tottering old man could only describe as, prés de minuit. Like midnight. That seemed to be the only accurate description of the color: like midnight. The satin fabric was a dark shade of indigo blended with violet and a smidge of black, sewn together with black thread. It served to complement Amelia's eyes and skin tone quite nicely. The rest of the day leading up to the banquet thinly disguised as dinner party was spent in preparation. Amelia bathed; her hair was thoroughly washed and dried, then cajoled into an elegantly relaxed updo, with little strands and hanks falling out at tasteful places that accented the shape of her eyes and her face. She dressed in her midnight gown and a pair of black ballet flats, adding a black necklace, drippy onyx earrings and a pair of black, opera-length gloves. She draped a soft cotton shawl over her shoulders and proceeded to the banquet.

Once there, she slipped into the crowd of people and floated along silently, unseen, ipping her champagne and watching the little dramas unfold before her. She had just settled into a chair when her mother came up to her and tapped her on the shoulder.

"Amelia, look at that young man over there." She pointed to a handsome man in the company of an insipid-looking brunette; he was in a dress uniform, she a very light pink gown.

"I see them." Amelia said softly. "Who are they?"

"Why you silly girl! That's Raoul, the Viscount de Chagny, and his new bride, Christine Daae! Or should I say, de Chagny." Her mother chuckled, amused at herself. "Aren't they just a splendid couple? They say that he saved her from the clutches of that awful Phantom…" Her mother shuddered and carried on relaying the gossip. But Amelia wasn't listening. Her gaze was riveted on Christine Daae. She'd heard the stories, of how Erik was madly in love and obsessed with her to the point of committing murder just to attain her, and how Raoul de Chagny had saved her before it was too late for the poor girl. Amelia didn't really care too much about the details. She could only wait for a chance to duck out in order to sneak to the opera house and uphold her promise to Erik.

She had it all planned out. It took her twenty minutes to walk to the Opera Populaire from her own house, and less from the ballroom they were in now. She planned to duck out at ten fifteen, just in case she got delayed.

With as best a simper as she could manage, she politely asked the time of one of the wait staff, He reported that it was exactly ten thirteen. She thanked him sweetly, and gathered up her shawl, leaving a message for her mother that she was leaving the party; she felt tired and did not want to be bothered until tomorrow morning.

The door was less than ten feet away when she heard someone come up behind her. "Excuse me, would you mind if I…"

Amelia turned around slowly, her face painted with a look of ice-cold indifference. The façade melted though, when she realized that she was being waylayed by none other than Christine de Chagny herself.

She could guess why Erik had been so obsessed with her, at first. Christine seemed sweet, wholesome, unable to hurt a fly even if it threatened to kill her. Amelia doubted the woman even knew the meaning of the word "malice".

"You were saying something?" Amelia prompted, walking slowly through the gardens, appearing to be at a leisurely pace.

Christine smiled, and it seemed her whole face lit up. Her eyes were too brown, Amelia decided. They threw too much uniformity in her features.

"Yes, I… I was going to ask you how you were liking Paris. I overheard your mother speaking to one of the guests and I thought it might be beneficial to perhaps become acquainted with you."

Amelia arched her eyebrows and kept walking, not looking at Christine. The girl beamed too much. She practically glowed and would thus get Amelia caught with her vibrance. That, and then Erik would go quite mad, she was sure. "Don't pay any heed to what Mother says. The poor woman's about mad as a hatter in her old age."

"Oh," Christine faltered. "Well, I… I…"

"I must be going." Amelia finished for her. "I have the most dreadful headaches you see, and I simply cannot abide being social one more bit. Perhaps I shall see you at some other function. Good evening, Viscountess." Amelia nodded her head in deference and left Christine standing behind her, dumbstruck, as she disappeared into the night.

Chapter Three

Erik paced, impatient. It was ten fifty-five. Where was she? All day he had been consumed with thoughts of her, her sleeping face as she held his hand. The small smile she had given him when he told her his name. Amelia Hyatt had filled his mind to the extent that with the thought of her, his music would either flow out of him like lifeblood or simply not come forth at all.


	3. In Which There is Dancing and Thievery

**AUTHOR'S NOTE:: ****Thanks to everybody who read the first two chapters of this story, even though it wasn't many people, comparatively. Haha. So anyways. Obviously this is Chapter 3 of **_**The Hardest Part is Knowing What to Call It**_**. Sorry I didn't put up an author's note on the first two chapters, and for that little spoiler at the end of Chapter 2. I forgot to cut that off the upload document. But anyways, here y'all go, chapter 3. Read and review please. I do so love getting feedback. And if you have any story suggestions shoot me a PM. I'll do my best to respond ASAP. But I digress. ENJOY!**

**DISCLAIMER: I do not own **_**Phantom of the Opera**_** or any of the characters except Amelia, her mother and the dressmaker from Chapter 2. Everyone else belongs to Andrew Lloyd Weber and Gaston LeRoux. **

Chapter Three

Erik paced, impatient. It was ten fifty-five. Where was she? All day he had been consumed with thoughts of her. Her sleeping face as she held his hand. The small smile she had given him when he told her his name. The liquid beauty of her eyes. Amelia Hyatt had filled his mind to the extent that with the thought of her, his music would either pour out of him like lifeblood or simply not come forth at all.

A shrill creak resounded, breaking the silence. Erik froze, tense and ready to spring if need be; praying it wasn't her, not her, not this strange, proud, unreal creature who so entranced him without his even knowing it.

Amelia stepped through the dressing room door, closing it behind her. "I apologize if I'm a little bit late." She began. "I got waylaid." She let the dark shawl from her shoulders and fall around her elbows. She stepped closer to him, and he could almost smell the fragrant perfume of her skin. "I'm here, though, as promised."

Erik stepped back a little, farther into the dark where she couldn't see his face heat up. He had thought before that she was not equal to Christine; he was right. This sort of dark elegance surpassed anything Christine could have exuded. He drank in her image, part of him wondering if it was just his imagination exaggerating or if what he was seeing was really real.

He hid his astonishment at her beauty and bowed once, politely. "Good evening, then. You kept your promise. "

She looked shrewdly at him. "I just said I kept the promise. Were you not listening?"

Erik cursed himself silently for letting her distract him so. "Yes. I was."

Amelia laughed, a dark, throaty sound. "And what do you plan to do with me tonight, Monsieur?" A half-smirk tugged at the corners of her mouth. "Carry me down the river Styx like Persephone and Charon?"

He regarded her for a moment. Then, with catlike grace, he slipped past her so he stood between her and the door.

He held out a hand for her. "Come with me."

Amelia looked unwary at first. He was, after all, the Phantom. But then the look melted away. Staring directly into his eyes, she slipped her hand –thin, delicate ivory thing that it was—into his, and nodded.

Amelia was stupefied to find herself almost swooning over him. Despite whatever monster the de Chagnys had made him out to be, the Phantom, Erik, was still an unbelievably handsome man. There was something about him, even in his mere presence, that she found captivating. She mused over this enigma as he led her through the same halls she had wandered down the night before. Finally, he led her to a large mahogany door.

Before he opened it, he pulled out a length of black satin cloth and covered her eyes with it.

"Do not open them until I say so." He told her coolly.

She smiled, amused. "I wonder why?"

He gave no answer. She could hear keys jingling, locks turning, and then a creak as the door was opened. Erik took her hands and led her forward. She had taken twenty steps forward when Erik stopped her and untied the blindfold.

She opened her eyes and gasped unconsciously. The grand ballroom had somehow been untouched by the fire. She stood at the head of a wide staircase, looking out over the opulence of the marble and gold chamber.

"My god…" She breathed. "How…" She turned, expecting to find Erik behind her, but not so. She cast about again, only to find him waiting in the center of the floor for her, hands clasped behind his back. She thought she saw him smiling, or at least smirking.

"Tonight," he called up to her, his smooth tenor carrying through the vast room, "We dance."

Erik watched, mesmerized, as she descended the stairs.

She seemed unaccustomed to such grandeur, and yet looked so natural when accompanied by it. Needless to say, the dress she wore was more than enough to make her seem regal as it was. Her figure was quite lovely. He longed to have her in his arms again, even if the first time was just a mistake. He shuddered to think of Christine in such a gown. And yet… something seemed off about her; as if she was not just unaccustomed to the magnificence, but made uncomfortable by it. He wondered what it was.

Amelia strolled across the floor, noiseless save for the swish of her skirts. She gazed about the room, picking at her fingernails as she walked. She stopped before him, again close enough he could smell the cold fragrance of her skin.

"I'll have you know I'm not much of a dancer." She stated flatly.

Erik shrugged. "We can easily remedy that."

"And we have no music."

"Do you seek to get out of spending time here?"

She stared at him, a shocked expression on her face. "No. I am merely stating facts, for your benefit."

Erik regarded her coolly. "I can help you become a better dancer, and I know music."

Amelia scanned his face as if looking for something she could not find. "Then I have no reason to protest." She laid a hand on his shoulder. "You will lead?"

He nodded, and carefully wrapped an arm around her waist, taking her other hand into his. He guided her across the floor, humming a monologue from one of the operas he'd learned as a child. Their eyes never left each other's. It was almost as if she trusted him completely. He so wished she did. He could never tell her that, but he wished it anyways. It seemed an eternity had passed, yet in one fleeting moment of reality.

He watched her out of his peripherals and noticed she was beginning to tire. He whirled her around one last time, and halted.

"How are you feeling?" He asked quietly.

She gave him a warm smile. His heart tried to leap out of his chest. "A little tired. You're an excellent dancer, Erik."

He nodded demurely. "Thank you. Would you like to sit?" He gestured to a grand piano just beyond the corner of the room.

"Only if you will play for me." She murmured sleepily, suppressing a yawn. "I'll not interrupt."

Erik gave her a half a smile. "Very well."

She yawned again. He smiled fully and took her arm, gently guiding her to the piano bench. She sat straight, with her hands folded neatly in her lap.

Erik spread his fingers out over the keys and let the music take over. He forgot everything save the keys, the pitches, the melodies and harmonies… It washed out of him like waves on a shore, crashing down and yet still soothing. After a few minutes he looked over at Amelia. She certainly looked tired. She was smiling, but her eyelids were drooping. Erik supported her with his shoulder, tapering into a soft, slower lullaby, then, for reasons he knew not why, into Beethoven's "Moonlight Sonata". She fell against his arm, finally asleep. Erik stopped and sat for a moment, watching her. She was so peaceful, calm. He wondered what she saw in him that made her decide to return tonight. Perhaps, he guessed, it was just fear of the Phantom. He frowned, hating himself for daring think it might have been anything else. There was no way it could have been…

She stirred, breaking off his train of thought. She rubbed her eyes and yawned hugely, in a way he thought unbecoming of a woman.

"Hello, sleeping beauty." He gave her a half-smile and watched, bemused, as she stood and straightened her dress out. He closed the piano and leaned on an elbow, still smiling.

"How long was I asleep?" She fussed with her hair self-consciously, shooting little glances at him.

"Not long." He stood and led her by the waist to the stairs.

"Not long. I see." She gave him a sideways glance. "Do you have the time, Erik?"

He reached into his coat and pulled out a shiny gold watch. "It is close to half past midnight. The night has only just begun. Were you thinking of leaving me so soon, Amelia?"

She chuckled and slipped her arm into his as they strolled down the silent halls. Erik thought back to the innumerable young lovers he'd watched cavorting in the moonlight, from his hiding place atop the theater's roof. He wondered if this was what it felt like, this strange jumble of feelings. He glanced at her out of the corner of his eye. She was beautiful, he decided. It seemed to him, though, that she didn't know it. She certainly never presumed on it.

"I left my book in Box Five last night. " She said suddenly.

"Would you like to fetch it?"

"I'll get it eventually."

Erik nodded, drawing her closer to him. "If you want." Outside the theater, thunder rolled ominously. "However, I will not allow you to leave now," he continued, "because if you do, you will catch cold and I will not have you traispsing along the streets of Paris in the pouring rain."

She shook her head, smiling. "You sound like my mother. Here, I have an idea." She took off in a rush of dark skirts, heading for the boxes. Erik followed behind her, a shadow in a black suit. She threw open the door of Box Five and appraised the room with her hands on her hips.

"Where is it?" She mumbled, poking around the box, looking under seats and behind curtains.

Erik stood in the doorway and watched her, interested. In reality he knew exactly where her book was. It was sitting on his writing desk, open where he had left off reading it.

She gave up looking and sighed. A sheen of sweat glistened on her skin. Then she noticed Erik standing in the doorway with an expression of amusement on his face.

"You know where they are, don't you? You took them out of the box last night." She rounded on him, half-incredulous.

"It's still my theater, after all. I can do as I please."  
>"That doesn't include steal my books!"<p>

"You were also trespassing in my box."

"But, I didn't have to come back tonight." She countered. "I could have lied to you and instead stayed at that blasted party and suffered through so much boring society conversation until I was sure my brain was going to rot out my ears. If you want me to keep coming back here every night you've got an odd way of showing it." She stormed off, throwing her shawl around her head and shoulders, heading for the door despite the fact that it was still pouring down rain outside. Erik shook his head and took off after her. Her fits could almost put La Carlotta to shame, if she was still living.

"Amelia!" He called after her. She stopped, albeit reluctantly.

"What do you want now?" She spat

"Would it make you less angry to know that your book is lying open on my desk, because I was reading it last night?"

She gave him a look that could melt diamond. "Erik, if you'd have just been straight forward in the first place instead of standing there smirking…" She sighed and pinched the bridge of her nose. "Yes. That makes me a little less mad. I wish you'd have just told me, though, instead of being so sly about it."

He nodded, but didn't apologize. "Very well. Shall we go and fetch it then?"

Her voice still bore traces of her ire. "Yes let's."

**Hopefully not too fluffy. Chapter Four is in the works, along with a major plot twist. Be kind, rewind—er, review, and stay tuned for the next chapter. Ciao! **


	4. In Which There Are Many Revelations

**Hello everybody! Welcome to chapter four. Chapter five is in the presses now, so enjoy! Sorry I didn't post this sooner. Y'all know what they say about the muse inspiring the art. So anyways. R&R please and thank you. Y'all enjoy. :] **

**DISCLAIMER: _I DO NOT OWN PHANTOM OF THE OPERA. IT IS THE SOLE PROPERTY OF ANDREW LLOYD WEBER AND GASTON LEROUX. _  
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Chapter Four

Several months passed. Spring moved into mild summer, then to the chill of autumn. Amelia soon found the cave beneath the opera house to be her home away from home. Her mother had been increasingly pushing her into Paris society, as well as into the company of Christine de Chagny, which Amelia found highly irritating. She could tolerate Christine in small doses, such as at a gala every once and a while, but every week? That was just too much. Not to mention, Amelia's mother had been pressing her into finding someone for a husband. There were plenty of eligible men in Paris, why couldn't she just settle down and pick one?

Amelia explained this to Erik one night in September.

"…And I really can't understand why she has become so obsessed with me taking a husband lately. I can't bring myself to care about any of them, let alone marry one of them! Ach, she frustrates me so much sometimes!"

She paced back and forth, arms folded, twirling a loose hank of hair around her index finger. Erik was perched on the organ bench, following her with his eyes.

"Why can't you simply tell your mother this?" He suggested. "If she cares about you, she must understand."

She gnawed on a fingernail, mulling it over. "No, I can't do that. It's not that simple. I can't just walk up to her, grab her by the shoulders and give her a good shake and say, 'Mother, I can't marry any of them because I don't want to marry any of them, because I'm already in love with the Phantom of the Opera!'"

She stopped dead and stared blankly at the wall. "Oh, dear. I just said that out loud, didn't I." She seemed distant now, as if amazed by her slip of the tongue. "I just said that out loud. I can't believe…" A dumbstruck look flashed across her face, soon replaced by a radiant smile. "Me, of all people!" She laughed. "In love with the Phantom himself! Ha!" She chuckled and turned to face him. He was no longer in his seat on the bench, watching her pace.

"Erik?" She turned and found him standing behind her, a somber expression on his face. "Erik, what is it? What's wrong?"

He cupped her cheek in one hand, delicately, as if she was made of painted porcelain instead of flesh and bone.

"You're wrong." He told her flatly. "You can't. It's not possible."

She backed away from him, chagrined. "Prove it to me then. Prove to me that it is impossible to love you."

The despair in his eyes could have made Cronus and the Titans kneel and weep.

"One day, Amelia, I hope you will forgive me for what I am about to do."

His hand left her cheek and gripped his own. His eyes never left hers as he removed the mask from his face.

Amelia gasped.

"This is why." He answered in a near whisper. "I am a monster."

The look on her face… it broke his heart to see it. Terror, he read in it. Terror and disgust. He didn't care anymore. She would leave him, just like Christine did, and he would be alone for the rest of his life. He should have never allowed himself to hope, to hope that she might be different, that she would be able to see anything beneath the scars and the disfiguration. Not even his own mother could; so what made him think that she would as well? The next one, he decided, that took to wandering in his opera house, he would kill immediately and thus save himself the misery. And if he got caught after the fact, they would kill him. It didn't matter to him anymore, whether he lived or died. Nothing mattered.

He felt her fingertips brush the scar tissue beneath his right eye. Tears ran down her face, little rivers flowing from the blue headwaters of her eyes.

Erik replaced the mask and wiped the tears from her face with the side of his finger.

"Do not cry, my love. " He soothed. "You may leave now, and never have to return, so long as you tell no one what y—"

She cut him off, grabbing the front of his shirt and kissing him hard.

Erik was shocked. Was he dreaming?

Amelia pulled back and held his face in her hands. "I'm not leaving you." She told him quietly. Then she threw her arms around his neck and kissed him again, longer and more passionately this time.

So many things were racing through Erik's mind; he could hardly make sense of them all. He gave up and pulled her closer against him, wanting nothing more than to know the sweet smell of her skin; the smooth, thick texture of her hair; the little noises she made when he kissed down her jawline, to her neck and further down.

His hands began to roam, trailing down her chest to her waist, circling her hips and sliding up her back. She melted in his hands, and gave him the look that answered all his questions.

With characteristic strength and agility, he swept her up into his arms and carried her to the swan bed.

Amelia lay with her head pillowed on his chest, tracing the outline of his collarbone with her fingertip. His arm was around her, one hand absently stroking her hair.

"Erik?" She sat up and met his eyes. "Do you love me?"

The simplicity of the question and the bluntness with which she asked startled him. Of course he did. If he didn't she'd have been dead a long time ago.

"Why wouldn't I?" He asked, slightly worried that she would believe otherwise.

She shrugged and curled up closer against him.

"Yes, Amelia, I love you." He kissed her softly and hugged her close to him.

She smiled and kissed his forehead. "Good." She then rolled out of the swan bed and began gathering her many layers of clothing, finally dumping them unceremoniously in a messy heap on the mattress.

Erik rolled onto his side and watched quietly as she dressed, wondering why women thought it proper to conceal their figures in so many layers of fabric. When she held out the strings of her corset to him, he eyed her warily as if unsure what to do with it. She shook them a little, and he relented and tied them. After he had secured the knot, she breathed deeply in and out.

"You need to tie that tighter." She untied the first knot and again held the strings out to him. Sighing, he sat up and yanked at the strings.

"Perfect…" She gasped. "Mother will never even be able to tell the difference."

He frowned and knotted the strings at the small of her back. She thanked him and continued dressing, eventually wandering over to a nearby mirror to re-pile her hair onto the crown of her head.

"You really don't need the corset, Amelia." Erik stated matter-of-factly, also beginning to redress. "Your figure is divine without it."

She gave him a grim smile as she refastened her earrings. "You're too kind. I'd like to see you try and tell proper Parisian society that." She tucked a few stray strands of hair and turned to watch him button up his shirt with an appraising look. She chuckled and began to rifle around for her coat. Erik came up behind her and draped it around her shoulders, along with a kiss to her lower jaw.

"Let me walk you home…" He murmured, eager to play the part of the obliging lover.

She gave him that same wan smile as before and pulled away. "I can't let you do that. I'll not risk you being seen outside the Opera Populaire, especially by… someone of… import." She answered carefully.

He nuzzled his cheek into the hollow of her throat and sighed. "Raoul de Chagny, you mean."

She nodded and sighed heavily. "Yes. Him or anyone who may have a reason to curry favor with him. Fop though he may be, he has the means to kill you and get away with it if he knows you're still in Paris."

"I will take you as far as the doors of the theater, then."

She smiled and kissed his forehead. "Very well. The doors."

Erik watched her recede into the darkness for what seemed like the thousandth night, though it still felt like the first. Not for the thought of the wedding dress he'd had made for Christine. It was sitting in a trunk, folded and awaiting the day it would be put to use. He locked the doors and mused on what Amelia would look like with it on.

Amelia padded silently through the house, replaying the events of the past night over and over in her mind's eye. She shuddered pleasantly at the memory. The house was silent, and remained that way even as she snuck up to her room and closed the door behind her. She crawled into her own bed, remembering the safety and warmth of lying in Erik's strong arms.

She awoke around eight that morning to the sound of commotion from downstairs. She could hear wailing of some sort, and had barely made it to the door when her mother burst into the room, distraught and disheveled.

"Amelia! Amelia, wake—"

"I'm right here, Mother." The younger woman said crossly. "What's going on?"

"Oh!" Mrs. Hyatt turned and held the younger woman's face in her hands. "Oh, Amelia, the most dreadful thing has happened." She crumpled into sobs on Amelia's shoulder. It was all Amelia could do not to slap her mother and put an end to these hysterics.

"What happened?" Amelia repeated sternly. "Mother, what is going on?"

"Oh, Amelia, I can't bear to tell you. It's just too horrible, too atrocious to even begin…" Mrs. Hyatt wailed. Amelia rolled her eyes and waited for the tide to ebb.

"Now, Mother." She began in a calm voice. "Tell me what happened. What's going on?"

Mrs. Hyatt dabbed at her eyes with a handkerchief and sniffled. "They found her murdered last night… strangled with a rope… she was going to have a baby too…" Mrs. Hyatt burst into sobs again and blew her nose loudly into the hankie.

"Who's dead, Mother?" Amelia pressed gently.

"You silly girl! Christine de Chagny! The Viscount is saying that the Phantom of the Opera is to blame for this, out for revenge over Christine leaving him. Raoul wants the ghost dead…"

The rest of what her mother said died in Amelia's ears. She knew how much the Viscount hated the Phantom and how much they both loved Christine. If she didn't warn Erik, he would die.

Spurred to movement by the thought, she flew to her feet, dressed hurriedly and tore out of the house at a speed she hadn't thought she was capable of.

She let fear fuel her as she ran, dreading what would happen if by some chance Raoul were to have reached the opera house before her.

When she found the doors were locked, she slipped in through an open window and tore down the dark hallways, screaming his name at the top of her lungs.

"Erik! Erik!"

The silence that followed was even more frightening when her echo murmured back to her:

_Erik…_ _Erik…_

-

**No guarantees as to when chapter five will be up... but not to worry, it will be along eventually. I'm posting these as I write. **

**SPOILER ALERT! I need help trying to figure out a proper distraction for a gallows scene. If you have any ideas shoot me a Private Message. Please and thank you. Review or I'll Punjab you. Buwahahahahahaha XD**


	5. In Which Plans Are Made

**AUTHOR'S NOTE: Sorry this took so long to write. I was on vacation, had writer's block and thus couldn't write much. But not to worry fellow Phans! Here is Chapter five. Please R&R. Feedback is greatly appreciated. As before, if you have any ideas concerning the plotline, or comments about characterization, leave a review and/or a PM. Enjoy!**

**Disclaimer: I don't own POTO or any of the characters. Andrew Lloyd Weber and Gaston Leroux do. Not me. Them. **

Chapter Five

"Erik! Erik! Erik, answer me, please! Where are you? Erik!..."

He heard his name, heard the voice echo off the walls, and recognized it immediately. He flew through the empty halls and passageways until he found her shrieking his name, tears pouring down her face.

"Erik! Erik, please—"

He came up behind her, and touched her shoulder. "I'm here, Amelia. What's wrong?"

She turned, and for a moment looked at him as if she couldn't believe he was truly there. Then she fell against him, clinging to him and sobbing for all she was worth.

He held her for a moment and then met her eyes, drying her eyes with a thumb. "Calm down. Now tell me what happened that's upset you so."

She looked at him for a moment, chin quivering as more tears welled up in her eyes.

"Erik, she's dead." She sniffled. "Christine Daae. They say she was murdered, and the Viscount thinks you're to blame. I'm willing to bet he is going to be searching for you everywhere he can think of, especially here at the opera house."

Erik was far away, unable to believe what she had just told him. Christine… his beloved Christine… his muse, his angel… was dead. Dead, as in never coming back. He groaned and sank to the ground, burying his face in his hands.

"How did it happen?" He mumbled, not daring look up at her.

She wiped her eyes and knelt by him, resting a hand on his shoulder. "She was strangled, Erik, sometime last night. We don't know when, but like I said before, Raoul thinks you did it. He's going to come after you, that's why I ran down here to warn you. He'll kill you if he gets his hands on you. "

Erik stood up then, his face colored with hatred so pure that it alarmed Amelia quite a bit.

"Let him come." He declared through gritted teeth. "The fool will learn better than to accuse me of murdering her."

He turned on his heel and stalked back to the cavern, leaving Amelia standing there in shock.

She watched him leave, incredulous. Finally she gathered up her skirts and ran after him.

"You can't do that!" She warned him. "You know as well as I that in this matter, Raoul de Chagny is above the law."

She grabbed him by the arm and turned him around. "Erik, you have to listen to me. You have to get away from Paris."

He glared at her, his eyes cold as ice. "And if Raoul de Chagny is as above the law as you say, where do you suggest I go?"

"To England. With me. My family has a house on the moors, no one would know you were there. I have money, I can pay for a ticket across the Channel and then for a carriage into the countryside where they will never find us."

Erik shot her another look and ran a hand over the organ's keys, absently tapping out a scale. He hated to leave it; he hated to leave Paris at all, especially for somewhere as strange and distant-seeming as England…

He looked around for Amelia, and found her perched on the edge of the swan bed, clutching her Edgar Allan Poe book to her chest, staring at the floor. She looked so small and scared, silently wiping more tears from her face with the back of her hand. He wanted to hold her and make everything better again, even if he _was_ the Phantom.

But at the same time, Christine Daae was dead, and he, Erik, was being blamed for it. If he stayed he would die, but if he left he would be a fugitive and would never be able to return to his beloved Paris Opera House.

There was only one option, then.

"Amelia?"

She looked up, startled by the sound of his voice.

"Yes?" The hope in her eyes was almost unbearable.

"I'll go."

Visible relief washed over her. "Oh, thank God." She sighed heavily and stood then, appraising the underground room with her hands on her hips. "We shan't have much time, you need to pack your things."

She rummaged around a bit and presently pulled a large trunk out from beneath the bed, muttering to herself in English. "Where the bloody hell does he _get_ these things, look for something and it's there, it's like the bloody rabbit hole."

She chuckled at her own joke, and began to meticulously fold and place his clothes in the trunk. Erik watched her for a moment, awestruck by the fact that a woman –other than Madame Giry, to whom he was forever indebted, she was practically his surrogate mother—would attempt to care for him in little ways such as this.

She began singing softly as she worked, something about the rocky road to Dublin. Her voice was plain, if a little flat at times, but nonetheless he was comforted by it. He smiled and sat at the desk, preparing to write a letter to Madame Giry and ask for her help with their escape.

No sooner than he had sealed and stamped the letter than he heard the murmuring of voices, angry voices, echo against the stone. Amelia froze where she stood, a folded pair of trousers in her hand, shock and fear writ more than clearly across her face.

"The Phantom is down this way! Follow me!" One of the voices called out.

Erik recognized it immediately. Raoul de Chagny, come to avenge his late wife.

Erik flew across the room and threw aside the curtain covering one of the mirrors, the one leading into the passageway out of the opera.

He handed the letter to Amelia and bade her find Mme. Giry and give it to her; that she would explain what would happen if all did not go well. He kissed her once, told her he loved her, and sent her running into the dark, away from the scene that unfolded before him.

He dropped the curtain, took his sword in hand and waited for the arrival of the Viscount.

Amelia barreled through the dark, damp tunnel, hands flung out to the side. She ran until she reached the cellar door, and with some effort, pushed it open. She stepped into the sunlight, blinking and shading her eyes from the brightness, which burned after spending so long in darkness and dim candlelight.

_Find Madame Antoinette Giry… she lives in a small house overlooking the Seine, not far from here… _

Erik's words echoed through her head. She clung to the memory of them, and by suppertime found the address he had given her.

She looked around her once, and finding herself to be the only one around, knocked on the front door.

Presently the door cracked, revealing a middle aged woman with long braided hair.

"Madame Giry?" Amelia asked.

The woman nodded warily.

"My name is Amelia Hyatt, Erik sent me with this." She held out the envelope as proof. At the sight of the skull seal cast on it, the woman's eyes widened and she opened the door farther.

"Come in, child, quickly, before someone sees that." Amelia was ushered into a warm room and the door was shut and locked behind her.

Erik watched silently as the Viscount, followed by a mob of gendarmes and armed nobles, poured into the cavern, each out for blood. He frowned and sighed heavily. The fop should have known that he would never be able to hurt Christine, let alone murder her.

"There he is!" One of the gendarmes shouted. "There's the murdering bastard, Your Grace!"

De Chagny jumped into the water and waded towards Erik.

"Come quietly, monster, and you will be shown mercy. But if you don't cooperate…" de Chagny waded out of the water and pressed a knife to Erik's throat. "… And you will rue the day you were born."

Erik removed the knife from his throat and stared coldly into the Viscount's eyes. "I did not murder Christine. I loved her too much to want her to come to any harm."

De Chagny glared at Erik. "The monster lies." He turned to the gendarmes and gestured towards Erik. "Arrest him. In addition to murdering _my wife_, he is also guilty of mass murder, manslaughter, arson, blackmail, and fraud. He is to be executed before the week is out. I will make sure of that." He spat at Erik's feet as the captain of the gendarmes slapped a pair of shackles about his wrists.

Erik watched Raoul de Chagny stalked away, his face impassive. Behind the mask though, in the back of his mind, gears were turning. The fop had denied him Christine. There was no way he was going to let the fool separate him from Amelia as well.

The time would come soon, he knew it. And he would be free again, with his lady by his side. That much he was certain of.

Madame Giry watched as the English girl stared anxiously out the window. She was gnawing on the tip of her fingernail, and seemed fraught with worry. What thoughts were running through her mind, Antoinette could not tell. She was certainly as pretty as Erik had made her out to be, that was one thing. And from what Antoinette had observed of her, she seemed to genuinely care for Erik, possibly even love him.

"He's going to find a way out, my dear." Madame Giry said at last, as if to resolve the young lady's concerns. "Erik is very sly that way."

"He certainly is, but… who's to say that the Viscount hasn't killed him already?" Antoinette could see the tears in Amelia's eyes, threatening to well over despite all her composure.

"Erik will make it out." Antoinette laid a reassuring hand on the girl's shoulder. "I am sure of it. Did he let you read the letter he sent with you?"

Amelia shook her head. "He didn't have time. I was putting his clothes in a trunk for him while he wrote it, and just as he finished it, we heard… them." Her voice faltered on the last word, and she covered her face with her hands.

Antoinette squeezed her shoulder once, sympathetically, and fetched the letter from its place atop the bureau. She handed the letter to Amelia, who wiped her eyes and began reading.

_My dear Madame Giry,_

_You are reading this letter because Raoul de Chagny has blamed me for the death of Christine. I can assure you that I have no involvement in this tragedy. In fact, I was with the very woman I am sending you this letter through. Her name is Amelia Hyatt, and even though she is English, she is still very dear to me and I want no harm to become of her. I seek to leave France with her and go to her home in Britain, where the de Chagny fop will not look for us. In the very likely event that I am arrested, do not seek to get me out of prison. I will get out on my own. de Chagny will also likely attempt to have me executed publicly, to show the citizens of Paris that the Phantom of the Opera is no more. I will be set free, and Amelia and I will leave Paris posthaste. _

_Expect me at your door soon after my escape. _

There was no signature.

Amelia sighed heavily and folded the letter, handing it back to Madame Giry. She loved him, but he was so over-confident at times. Somehow he had escaped after the disaster at the theater.

But did that really mean he could do it again, and that they would be able to make it so far as to leave the country?

She wasn't so sure.

****

**Not my favorite chapter, but there ya have it. R&R please. Chapter six will be up sometime before the Ides of March, hopefully. **


	6. In Which There Is A Rendezvous

**Hello everybody! Bit of a short chapter but lots of things happen here sooo… yeah. **

**Have a couple reviews to address: **

**RedDeathLvr: Yeah, I get that Erik seems overly confident. I think that at that point it was just blind seething rage over being blamed for his former muse's murder. **

**Plague's Vengeance: Probably not the grand escape you had in mind but let's not forget that Gerard Butler also starred in **_**Law Abiding Citizen.**_** BUWAHAHAHAHA! **

**R&R please and thank you. **

**Disclaimer: I do not own POTO otherwise there would be no POTO because I would have never let that bimbo *coughcough Christine coughcough* near Erik in the first place.**

**ENJOY Y"ALL! :D**

Chapter Six

The Paris prison reeked of rot, stale piss and decay. Erik sat in his cell, stoically ignoring the jeers and taunts from the guards. The ceiling leaked, an incessant drip at a maddeningly slow speed. He got one meal a day of old bread and thin soup, and if he was lucky, a tankard of questionable-smelling wine to drink. He was kept separated from the rest of the prisoners because after all, he _was_ a madman. He chuckled bitterly at the description. The pampered Parisian aristocracy had no idea what "mad" truly looked like. Whoever it was that had killed Christine was mad. At the thought of her, his gut wrenched with grief, and bile rose up in his throat. Every time he fought it down, replacing Christine in his mind with Amelia. How she could love him, and offer to help him escape, he would never be able to figure out. Not for the first time, his memory returned to that night, so long ago it seemed even though he knew it was only three nights past.

She was a creature of magnificence. His heart raced at the memory of her body and his skin tingled at that of her touch. It was unlike anything he had felt before. To be something that a woman, let alone a beautiful woman like Amelia, would desire at all was beyond his wildest expectations. Even Christine had been reviled by the thought of sleeping with him.

Her words echoed in his head, little barbs that stung on impact.

"_Am I now to be prey to your lust for flesh?" _

Erik frowned. He could never have brought himself to be so… physical with Christine. But with Amelia, it just came naturally. She was so different from any other woman he had encountered. Granted the number wasn't many, but nonetheless he was enthralled by her independence.

His thoughts were interrupted by the sound of voices from the end of the cellblock.

"He is to receive no visitors, mademoiselle, with the exception of Raoul de Chagny."

"Do you think that I would be here if His Grace was able to come in person?"

There was a moment of silence. Erik recognized the second voice and smiled darkly. She never did cease to amaze him.

"Yes, mademoiselle, I understand. Would you like an escort? He's known to harm young women such as yourself. The Viscount wouldn't want you to come to any harm whilst running this errand for him."

Amelia scoffed. "I know for a fact that he is not going to harm me."

He heard the rattle of a torch being lifted from its sconce, and then the business-like click of her heels on the stone floor. He counted sixty-eight paces before she appeared to him, an angel in this wretched hellhole.

"Hello, love." She said quietly.

Erik stood and moved as close to her as he could, resting his face on the bars. "Hello, _ma ch__é__rie._ I told you not to come here. Why did you defy me?"

The torchlight cast her face in stark relief as she looked down. "I was worried about you. I wanted to see for myself whether or not those damned fools had treated you properly." She cast a vile glance in the direction from whence she'd come. Then she turned back to him, her features softer now. "Madame Giry and I have everything packed. I've left my mother's house, left her a note saying I was tired of this aristocratic melodrama, and that I was leaving." She sighed heavily and continued: "And I've written to the housekeeper at Tanner's Mill, that's the place we're…"

She trailed off and met his eyes. He could easily read in them the pain, the despair, the anxiety. She looked exhausted, mentally and physically. "We're expected, and she's sending the coachman to the port at Brighton to meet us."

Erik nodded. "Outside, what time of day is it?"

"Late afternoon. The sun is probably setting by now."

"How long have I been in here?"

"Four days." Her voice was reduced to little more than a whisper. "Raoul de Chagny wants you executed tomorrow at dawn…"

If his hands weren't shackled behind his back, Erik would have reached out and held her face in his hands. "How much have you slept in those past four days?"

She set the torch in the sconce near the cell door and began picking at her nails. "Hardly at all."

"Go home and sleep then. Don't worry about me, love, I'll be fine."

He watched as she tugged at something within her sleeve. It glimmered in the torchlight, and he understood perfectly.

"And Amelia?" He said in an intimate whisper.

She stepped closer to be able to hear him. "Yes?"

"I told you not to help me." Through the bars he crushed his mouth against hers, letting himself go for the second in his life. She sighed against him and pressed herself against the bars, sliding her arms around his waist. He parted her lips, shaking with the desire to know her so intimately and to become one and the same with her in that single moment. Then the air was sucked from his lungs –a curious, dizzying sensation—and he pulled back. She also pulled back and smiled shyly, her face colored with passion. Yet again she had taken his breath away. Her hand caressed the good side of his face, and he reveled in the contact, the softness of her skin sending electric jolts through him.

"I should go." She murmured. "I've been here for too long already." She picked up the torch and left without another word.

Erik watched her go, certain now of his escape. He licked his lips, eager to be free if only to be near her a last time. He listened closely to the exchange from down the hall:

"Did he say anything of importance?" The guard at the hall's end.

"No, he seems to think that I was merely a toy sent for his amusement rather than a servant of His Grace. I will speak to Viscount de Chagny of this insolence." Heels on stone, then silence.

Erik could have applauded the performance she gave. Impersonating an attendant of de Chagny's… that was highly clever. He grinned in spite of himself as his fingers wrapped around the lock pick she had slipped into his back trouser pocket.

The only sound was the dripping water on the stone as he went to work on the shackles.

Erik stood in the shadows of the cell, waiting for the guard to come closer… closer… just a little farther…

He leapt out and grabbed the man by the throat, and snapped his neck efficiently. The dead man crumpled to the ground, his final use being to provide the keys that would set Erik free. He unlocked the door, stepped out, closed it, and locked it behind him. He looped the key ring back around the dead man's belt. The Opera Ghost had struck again. Better to leave the de Chagny fop with something to ponder on in the morning. The Opera Ghost had struck again.

With catlike silence and agility, he opened the grate-like window and slipped out into the night.

Amelia paced, again fallen into the pit of despair. Erik was supposed to be out tonight. The clock on the wall said it was eleven-thirty already. Madame Giry had already secured a coach and a ferry for them, using some of the money that Erik kept in one of the many cellars of the Opera Populaire. They had a thousand francs on hand in case they ran into highwaymen en route to the ferry in Normandy, but otherwise everything was packed and stowed away.

Where was Erik? The clouds blocking out the half-full moon moved away for a moment, and she stopped before the window. She prayed he had made it safely out of the prison. She had been so sure of him that she hadn't said goodbye, or even an "I love you." What if, what if, what if…

The most discreet of knocks rang in her ears. She had trouble not flinging the door open to see if it was him. With all the discipline she could muster, she cracked the door open just barely enough to see out.

A sliver of bone white and a blue-green eye looked back at her. Her heart dropped of relief, and then pounded out of her chest for joy as she pulled him into the room and out of the night. She clutched him to her, breathing in the heady masculine smell of him, basking in his warmth like a lizard on a warm rock.

"It was only a few hours, dearest." He murmured to her. Madame Giry stepped into the room and smiled warmly.

"I don't care. I missed you regardless." Amelia mumbled against his chest.

_She worried all week. _The older woman mouthed to Erik.

He nodded in answer and pulled Amelia from against him. "I trust everything is ready to go?"

She nodded, embarrassed now that Madame Giry had entered the room, her cheeks flushed vivid red. "Yes. We have an hour if you would like to clean up a little, but if you wish to leave now we can do so at once."

Erik nodded again. "Let me change and then I shall be ready to go."

Amelia nodded and relinquished him, now impatient to leave since he was here.

An hour later Erik returned dressed in flat black, the only colored thing on him being his mask. His cloak swished as he walked, and he strolled to the door, where he waited paitently.

Amelia fastened her own cloak around her neck, and sighed once. This was it, then.

"Thank you, Madame Giry, for everything." Erik said quietly. "Once again I owe my life to you."

"Thank you, yes." Amelia echoed feebly. She was so shaky with anticipation she had trouble forming sentences properly.

Madame Giry smiled warmly and nodded. "It is nothing. Now go, before the carriage leaves without you."

Erik nodded and ushered Amelia out into the night and the waiting carriage, as if she was the one to be whisked away and not he.

He watched her quietly throughout the hard ride to Normandy, only able to think one phrase from a part of his life now well over:

_Past the point of no return… _

**Whether or not I'm going to include a telling of the ferry trip to England is still undecided. Review and tell me what you think should happen! **

**And I encourage all you fans of **_**The Crow**_** to pop on over to the POTO crossover section and read my second story, called Two Angels Meet in a Cemetery. If you liked this you'll like that. ^^)**

**Again, review please. I have no life right now so I live to hear what y'all think of this. **


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